Chapter 9
The silence in my penthouse isn't empty; it's expensive.
It's a silence designed by architects, acoustically insulated by triple layers of tempered glass, maintained by an air filtration system that eliminates dust before it touches the floor.
Fifty stories above Chicago, the noise of the city—the sirens, the screams, the grime—is nothing but a visual concept. Lights blinking in the abyss below.
I value my sanctuary. It's the only place where the world's entropy doesn't intrude. Where everything is exactly where I left it. Where control is absolute.
Until now.
The elevator opened directly into the living room with a hydraulic whisper. I pushed Solaia forward. Not with excessive violence, but with the impatience of someone hauling unwanted baggage.
She stumbled over her own feet. The heel of her right shoe gave way, twisting her ankle. She didn't fall, but she staggered, her shoulder slamming into the immaculate white wall of the entrance hall. She let out a low moan, a pathetic sound that grated on my nerves.
“Welcome home,” I said, my voice cold and cutting.
Solaia straightened, leaning against the wall.
She blinked, trying to focus on her surroundings.
Her dark eyes swept the room. Polished concrete floor.
Black Italian leather furniture, straight lines, no cushions, no throws.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls displaying the nighttime skyline.
No photos. No plants. No color. It was a modern mausoleum.
And she, with her wrinkled silk dress, smeared red lipstick, and the smell of red wine and cold sweat, was a stain on my white canvas.
“It's... cold,” she murmured, her voice thick.
“It's clean,” I corrected. “Take off your shoes. I don't want street dirt on my floor.”
She looked at me, and I saw a spark of defiance flicker in her eyes, but the alcohol quickly snuffed it out.
She bent down, losing her balance again, and yanked off the Louboutins.
She tossed them carelessly onto the floor.
The sound of the heels striking concrete echoed like gunshots in the empty room.
“Satisfied?” she asked, straightening up. She swayed.
“I'll be satisfied when you're sober and silent. The master bedroom is to the right.”
I walked to the bar built into the opposite wall. Not to drink—I needed my mind sharp—but to put distance between us. I grabbed a bottle of mineral water. In the reflection on the dark window glass, I saw she hadn't gone to the bedroom. She was standing in the middle of the room, watching me.
I turned slowly. Solaia had her hands behind her back, fumbling with the endless row of buttons on the wedding dress. The dress I had chosen to cover her. The dress that was supposed to protect her, and that she was now trying to tear off with the urgency of someone on fire.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
“Fulfilling the contract,” she replied. The words came out in a rush. “This is what happens now, isn't it? The wedding night. The consummation. Husband and wife doing their duty. Blah, blah, blah.”
She laughed—a broken, ugly sound. “Let's just get this over with, Cassian. I just want to sleep.”
I watched her fingers struggle with the small pearl buttons. Her coordination was shot. She pulled hard, and I heard fabric tearing. A button popped off, rolling across the floor until it stopped near my foot. The fabric at her back parted, revealing the pale skin of her spine.
I felt a wave of revulsion. Not at the nudity—female anatomy wasn't a mystery to me—but at the surrender.
She was offering herself not out of desire, not out of seduction, not even out of fear.
She was offering herself because she thought it was the price of rent.
She was reducing herself to an object, expecting me to use her and discard her so she could black out.
It was an insult. An insult to my intelligence, to my control, and, strangely, an insult to herself.
I set the water bottle on the counter. I crossed the room in long strides.
Solaia had managed to loosen the top of the dress. The silk fabric slipped off her shoulders, catching on her arms, leaving her collarbone and the swell of her breasts exposed. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, waiting for the touch. Waiting for the brutality she thought she deserved.
I grabbed her wrists. She flinched, a jolt running through her, and opened her eyes. I didn't pull her toward me. I held her at a distance, her arms extended, preventing her from finishing undressing.
“Stop,” I ordered.
She blinked, confused. Her face was flushed, her breath reeking of expensive wine gone sour in her stomach. “What? You don't want me?” She tried to smile, but her lip trembled. “Marco said you didn't know what to do with a woman. Maybe he's right. Maybe you prefer your guns.”
I tightened my grip on her wrists. I saw pain flash across her face, but I didn't ease the pressure. “Don't confuse discipline with impotence, Solaia.”
“Then fuck me!” she screamed, and the tears finally spilled over, hot and fast. “That's what I am now, isn't it? Your property! Use your property! Get this over with so I can forget today!”
I released one of her hands and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up into the cold, unwavering steel of my gaze. I wanted her to see. I wanted her to understand the hierarchy here.
“Look at you,” I whispered with contempt. “You can barely stand. You’re crying. You reek of alcohol and self-pity.”
I ran my thumb across her lower lip, wiping away a smudge of lipstick harder than necessary. “You think this excites me? You think I’m an animal like the men who frequent your father’s nightclubs? That any warm body will do?”
She sobbed, trying to turn her face away, but I held her firm.
“To consummate a marriage, Solaia, there have to be two people present.” I brought my face closer to hers, letting my words settle on her skin like frost. “And right now, there’s no one inside that body. Just poison and shame.”
I released her. The push was light, but she staggered backward, tripping on the hem of her torn dress. She pulled the silk up, covering her chest with trembling hands, as if suddenly realizing how exposed she was. The bravado was gone, replaced by real, cutting shame.
“I don’t touch drunk children,” I finished, wiping my hands on my pants as if I’d touched something filthy. “And I’m certainly not going to fuck my wife while she’s trying to numb herself just to endure me.”
“Cassian…” she whispered. The rejection hit her harder than any slap. I saw it in her eyes. Being used would have been horrible, but predictable. Being rejected as unworthy was devastating.
“The bedroom’s through there.” I pointed to the dark wood door at the end of the hallway. “There’s water on the nightstand and painkillers in the bathroom. You’re going to need them.”
“And you?” Her voice was barely a thread.
“I’ll sleep in the guest room. Where the air is clean.”
She stood there, holding the dress against her chest, looking small, broken, and infinitely alone in the middle of my million-dollar living room.
For the first time, I felt a pang in my chest. Not desire.
Perhaps pity. Vittorio was right. They would have devoured her.
She’d offered herself to me on a silver platter because she thought it was the only way to survive.
She didn’t know any other language than carnal transaction.
I would have to teach her. And the first lesson was this: my desire isn’t cheap. And my respect can’t be bought with sex.
I walked to the control panel on the wall and pressed a button. The blackout curtains in the master bedroom descended automatically, sealing the room.
“Go to sleep, Solaia.”
She turned and walked toward the bedroom, her bare feet dragging. She disappeared into the darkness. I waited until I heard the door close.
I walked to the door. Turned the key in the lock from the outside. Click.
It wasn’t to trap her. She had nowhere to go.
It was to keep myself from going in. Because despite all my talk about control and disgust, the scent of her skin—sweet, warm, and alive—still lingered in my nostrils.
And the image of her, with the silk slipping off her shoulders, would be seared into my memory for a long time.
I rested my forehead against the cold wood of the door for a moment. Took a deep breath. Pulled myself together.
I loosened my tie, pulled it off, and tossed it on the sofa. Then I headed to my office. There was a war out there that needed managing. And now, there was a war in here too.